


Carpe Diem

by RAW_SYNTH3TICA



Category: American Psycho - All Media Types, Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Rising (2007)
Genre: Character Analysis, Character Study, Graphic Violence, M/M, Male Slash, POV First Person, Racism, graphic gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 17:09:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/839306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RAW_SYNTH3TICA/pseuds/RAW_SYNTH3TICA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What do you get when fashion goes to hell, Patrick Bateman has a breakdown & he somehow finds a young Doctor Hannibal Lecter in the mix to tell his woes to? </p><p>A terrible mistake of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Carpe Diem

**Author's Note:**

> ALL IS FICTIONAL & NOT MINE.
> 
> ps. I couldn't choose who to depict as Hannibal (so I chose a very subtle mixture of Gaspard Ulliel or a younger Mads Mikkelsen via appearance not acting-wise)

The day the world ended was when the most expensive clothing became leisure-wear in bad sophistication. 

Me and the guys are lounging, talking Wall Street and Financial Magazine along with Gourmet and the latest Elliptical machines. 

I am wearing a pewter gray silk and linen two piece by Georgio Armani, my shoes by Salvatore Ferragamo in polished black cordovan, and a subtle lavender suit shirt by D&G co. My tie is pinstriped by Hermès. Proper, elegant, nouveau, Por Homme. 

“Hi, guys.” Out of the corner of my eye I see Carruthers making a beeline towards us in his new homebody getup, his pants whizzing and rasping when his thighs pass against each other. I am curious about this colored trash bag he is wearing as does everyone who has clear-rimmed glasses stare and make double takes. 

“Carruthers.” McDermott is leaning back with his anything-but-Bellini-drink, the back of my neck is sweating, I fold an arm across my chest to check the time on my white gold Rolex. “What are you Wearing?” 

“It’s cool. These clothes of the future are all over Paris and taking London by storm as we speak.” Carruthers grins chin to forehead. 

“The Cirque giving their used costumes to the homeless, I’ve heard about it through my secretary over brunch at Deck Chairs.” Van Patten nods with his Menthol cigarette. 

“Don’t believe me? Fine.” I’m guessing this is the first time we’re seeing Carruthers mad, a little pissed, slightly smug like he’s discovered a goldmine between Courtney’s legs. The superbly tanned dark leather Coach attaché case clashes with the stupid plastic of his ‘jacket’ as he pulls it out from his side, we have for some reason ignored the case after being hit by the rainbow clown-suit. He slaps a thick glossy phonebook in the center of our table, spilling the remainder of my drink across my lap. I’m too shocked to react to Carruthers. “Tommy Hilfiger.” 

GQ, Italian Vogue, W, Vanity Fair and Donald Trump: Eat your heart out. I think I just had a heart attack. 

The cover featured a dime a dozen bleached blonde teenager smiling her ass out being given a piggyback ride by a man of the same pubescent nature assumingly her boyfriend who has the same shit-blown grin. Their hair is long, shimmering in the faux ocean backdrop and both are dressed uniformly in white tank tops and white parachute pants, both have excessively huge red, white and navy blue emblems stamped across their chests. The Hilfiger army has arisen. I can’t breathe. 

The page is turned to some ungodly scene with two Teenage girls and a dog. There are some guys like Van Patten who Are into it, not me, I can’t lie about this. Twins, chicks with dicks, blood, hardcore, threesomes, more-somes, free-for-all, gangbang, masturbation and abuse completes my list. 

“What do you think, Bateman?” Van Patten taps on a male model’s tweezed-bare crotch with a stitched white bubble coming out where there should be a pouch instead. 

I swallow the dry saliva in my mouth and feel their conversation shifting because I’m taking too long to answer. “Too shallow.” 

“I really like this one.” Price offers his perfectly pedicured fingernail on a brunette wearing a cropped white t-shirt and holding the bottom hem suggestively as if trying to hide her shaved cunt, his finger is still tapping on said-pussy covered by what looks like a glorified plain white panty with a high waist and underwear brief patterned. 

“The blonde with mosquito bite tits? How do you suppose to tit-fuck That, Price? How would you manage to get her nipples within a mile of each other without stretching her titties?” I finally notice that the model is a blonde and her tiny tits give a slight shadow at the center of her logoed shirt. They are in fact miniscule. 

“Fuck you, faggot. I was talking about her slutty double in Nekenieh. She’s maybe got a Good personality.” ‘Good Personality’ translates to D-sized tits. I grin knowingly, but have it quickly slapped off with the rebuttal to my pride for huge tits. “Besides, you’d fuck her the First chance you get.” 

If there were a hell, it’d be at the sales rack in Barney’s or Saks during the January Rack Clearance, Most definitely in isles selling new Tommy Hilfiger populated to the tit with the common hardbody and her wannabe surfer boyfriend. Not only are the ‘outfits’ too sporty and Not for outings and eveningwear, I ask myself after I see Carruthers prancing around like a fucking yuppie in all the primary colors where the sanctity of Fashion and Novelty had gone sniffing around sweatshop-screaming patterns calling my starring Fashion Week Exclusive two piece Valentino a breath timeworn. There were no accentuating facets which would downplay Carruthers’ electric red hair and blanched face in need of tanning, he had absolute ketchup red overkill with a single matching plastic zipper underneath a line of Velcro fasteners that make loud tearing sounds when Carruthers rips them off one by one, inch by mother fucking inch. Since the Entire outfit was made of either nylon parachute material or PVC and viscose, his movements are as prima lead soprano of the Les Misérables Broadway show choking on a cocktail of glass and lye. 

That isn’t the Half of it. The pockets have acrylic-coated Brass snap buttons, Brass! Fucking Acrylic-Brushed Brass Snaps! Not even a proper button with tiger eye or tortoiseshell! Don’t get me started on the cotton Drawstrings. They come in the next base color Yellow with two white plastic spring-loaded fasteners! The pants are no better, they make Carruthers look as if he is wearing a pineapple juice-stained circus tent. I hate that whiny kiss-ass Carruthers, but for this one time I will take a stand for his taste and say he Can do better. Maybe as good as the GQ communist. Is that a Hoodie I see? I promise if there is a hoodie, I’m going to chop Carruthers’ balls off and shove them into his ass still bleeding. Oh god it’s a Hoodie. 

I lose interest in the catalogue full of young hardbodies dressed in bright gay-parade monochromes and floppy plastic material which three people can fit in in one time. I’m breathing so hard that I can’t swallow, I’m tearing up so badly I might cry so I turn away and pretend I saw an associate of mine I might utilize as a quick diversion. It works if only Price hadn’t seen me sniffle and lift my Ray-Bans from my pocket square. 

“Calm down, Bateman. Here, take a Prozac. Chill. Go with the Flow.” What does that even Mean? Price offers me a pill and drops two at the side of my J&B, and I lost it. My nose bleeds long drops onto the linen tablecloth monogrammed with the lounge’s name, I don’t care to read it and rub my nose with my cotton Polo handkerchief. I take my Dior Leathersmith attaché case to my side and march along, my Walkman blasting a new band Depeche Mode’s ‘Tainted Love’ out my foldable headphones. I need a shrink. He doesn’t need to be that Good. I just want someone to talk to about my platinum AmEx card heaping bills from the sex twat Courtney. I need another drink. 

The traffic is down almost to an abandoned crawl at the time Price offers to take a potshot at me. No one can be this mortified and still alive to feel the sting. The Macy’s Day Parade is in full swing advertising spring’s new line of silk pencil skirts and faux baubles to the all deafening whining of Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. No remark is worth this occasion, I hail a cab to the video store, they probably have an extra copy of ‘Raving Amazons Gang a Tourist’, ‘Foxy Pegs Cherry’, ‘Eight in One Hole’, ‘Revenge of the She-men’ and other titles I’ve specifically ordered two weeks ago. 

I don’t talk to the cabbie, I refuse to look him in his rearview mirror, I tell him to turn off the music and mumble the directions of another place Carruthers recommended to me. I take a Prozac and sip it down with a Coke. Why do I listen to that idiot? Because he is Almost always right. 

Vivaldi by this time is worn down to the last layer of the Compact Disk before I am dropped off with a sizable bill, almost as much as ordering a three-course dinner at Dorsia, the Prozac made me a little happier. I mumble ‘Dancing in the Street’ while trying to figure out which foot to place first before the other, and I walk, stumble into a building swathed in the evening chill and cloudy sky. I can hardly see where I’m going with my Ray-Bans still on my nose. A man in his fifties comes out of a door still gasping his harried thanks to a tall figure at the door, I am curious where Carruthers’ recommendation has led me, I think back to the trainer who not only hit on me, but massaged my ass and thighs inappropriately. He called it platonic ‘Deep Tissue.’ So I fired him. 

The figure beckons me in, his hand resting on my shoulder as he ushers me into his home. There are classical paintings and a laser-etched plaque announcing ‘Dr. Hannibal Lecter - Ph.D.’ where family portraits should have been, two comfortable couches and a plush chair fitted with an embroidered tapestry cushion at the back and seat. In the least to say, as cultured as his taste in subtly Victorian furniture, the dimness of the room suffocated me, it feels like my eyeballs are sinking into my brain and bleeding all over my Ray-Bans. An open door to another room stood backlit by a halogen bulb, wide-scope and a frosted edge glass to fade out the brightness, I walk in. The shaking I had is gone, I’m a little hung over from the Coke and Prozac. A hand at the center of the halogen ceiling light motions me to an eggshell-colored loveseat, I finger the serrated edged knife in my right pocket, my attaché case in the left hand. I toy with the notion of cutting his ears into confetti and sawing off his forearms to bleed him dry. I seat myself on the slightly worn couch. I’m certainly not the first to sit where I am. 

Doctor Hannibal Lecter, sounds Serbian guido. 

His shoes are a Gucci knockoff after I stare past his featureless oak-stained coffee table dividing patient from the qualified sadist, or that’s what I’m convincing myself. His socks are R. Baum, and the pressed suit pants along with his matching wool and silk blend blazer tucked by a two-button fixture. The shoulders of his suit jacket are slightly rounded in a precise cut, a little square at the separation between upper arm and shoulder. His tie is pre-Italian fashion renaissance cut wide and short, a deep maroon base-dye and paisley-print. His blazer is showing Just the right amount of shirt cuff no more than approximately three-quarters of an inch above his wrists, the sleeves two shades of tan just shy of yellow, both are perfectly cylindrical. Even his pocket square with a red silk Fashion Week Special kerchief sat folded inside. The rest of his clothing left unmentioned are either knockoffs altogether or custom. Good shoes, cheap suits feel less tacky if I’m wearing it. Twice as bad if someone else decides to wear everything at the back of their closet in one day. 

The bastard is as handsome as an approximate late-twenty-year old should be. Like a classical model with the ideal face and expression to paint, he could have easily been Mona Lisa if he wanted to be sadomized by the artist in celebration of painting a cliché masterpiece over red wine and aged gouda. I feel a little humbled, but not enough to keep me from running straight back to my apartment. 

I don’t look around his office save for the single armchair inspired by an ever neoclassical post-mod artiste nihilist. 

I lean back, allowing him to stare at my perfectly tanned face, he on the other hand has no tan, he has very pale peachy olive skin likely from European ancestry under his belt with superb complexion, I’m guessing his admiration for the Clinique skincare regimen among a unisexual eau de toilette possibly by Coco Chanel. It’s very clean, almost hygienic of him to wear it on his main pulse points. “It’s a relief you don’t fit Vera.” 

“Wang.” He finishes my naming of the designer who’s self-taught motto is ‘You are tailored to fit Vera Wang’. The idea doesn’t sound too bad speaking of skinless bodies peeled and filleted of their fat to fit into a Vera Wang wedding dress. I play with a frayed edge of the couch cushion’s edge, he observes me and answers like a professional. “The design of her couch is too mod-Perspex.” 

I beg to differ, maybe because I can fit into anything with the name Vera monogrammed into the tag. “Another word for ‘too expensive’?” 

“I prefer something with personality, drama and complexity.” His voice is exactly as his maybe Chanel eau de toilette suggests: light, defined and crispy to the ears. He is also more learned than I had bargained for, not that a bargain is Always a good one as the one I’m receiving now. “Rather than a vapid, tasteless, uninspired excuse called nouveau Vogue which replaces timeless elegance once European in the uninteresting cesspool the public now refer to as ‘Mod’.” 

“But still too expensive.” I lean forward the more his suit’s details come to light, a bilinear plaid which seems to blend well with the paisley of his tie, it is something very rare to find a balancing compromise between two vastly different patterns. “What do you wear, Doctor Hannibal Lecter?” 

“We’re still on schedule, Mister Bateman.” He completely dismisses my valid question of his personal styling choice in favor of folding his leg atop the other and lacing his fingers in patience over his draped knee. 

“Please.” My patience isn’t short, it’s explosive. “I can afford You and this cheap little Victorian flat you call an office. Doctor Hannibal Lecter, what keeps you sheltered from the typical nymphomaniac?” 

“Custom Basque from Haus of Nina.” His voice is measured. “Which is why you see no brand emblems, no crests and more personality than the Hef Handbook.” 

We sit in his shrink’s office, contemplating who should add to the toxic conversation first. Better he than I. “Begin whenever you like, Mister Bateman.” 

“All my friends call me Patrick, Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” I forgot to return the fucking videos again. Bateman, you bastard. “Better known for my impeccable neophila.” 

He makes a note with his gold plated Eddie Bauer pen and plain paperboard notepad, Doctor Hannibal tilts his head to the side. “Were you always this way, Patrick?” 

“Yes, I hated the thought of wearing the same cocktail suit twice, the same dry-cleaning without finding it in the same week’s Vogue catalogue.” First Jean, the secretary who is destined to marry me, comes to mind. She is quite the abomination until she gets into the habit of wearing skirts and seven-inch heels. After is the disappointing catwalk of talking mannequins wearing one item or the other, but never collected into the same ensemble as I. “I get sickened by the very notion that my novelty is compromised by another twit wearing the same threads. It’s not cool.” 

Doctor Hannibal stares at me the same way said-mannequins give dead eyes to customers, his eyes looking past me into what I presume is the shadow of myself sitting beside me. “What is ‘cool’?” 

“Blonde, big tits, perfect face. A greedy hardbody who’s stupid and not annoying. Etcetera, etcetera.” My fingernail chips, realizing how I was clenching my case, I massage my sore hands. “She’s even better if she has those hippie ideas about antifertility as part of legal abortions.” 

“Do you hate women?” What kind of question is That? Doctor Hannibal tilts his head to me just enough so I see his high cheekbones and squared jawbones. He has a scar healed over in his right facial cheek, the accidental muscular cut is quite flattering in a sense of him not being so angelic of his expressionless persona. “Does the thought of her controversial opinions act as a counterweight against your seemingly extreme prejudices against her gender?” 

“I hate your opinions, Hannibal.” I mimic his posture but have a suave half-smile on my lips. He would look good on his knees inside a confession, telling dirty secrets to the person sitting in the next pew, his hands occupied with the fastenings of his pants. “The more controversial her ideas, the better the hate-sex.” 

“The door is always opened to be shut if the patient so pleases to see past their ailments, Patrick. Will you stay to continue therapy or shall I hold open the door?” Doctor Hannibal makes no move to stand or a twitch at all to indicate if he would stand up and see me out to my long gone cab. I watch his young muscles flex inside his cheek like a broken wing. “I see. It seems as if you are avenging your masculinity upon her aversion of not submitting properly as a woman.” 

All this worrying caused my Prozac to burn off into a dull after high, I’m not into Carruthers’ scene, but I do like anal. Let’s see if I can get Doctor Hannibal in a wig and lipstick before the night is out. “Call me old fashioned, do you want to know about my sexlife?” 

“If it helps, you can talk about whatever you want.” Doctor Hannibal is scribbling down something neatly in his notepad, he finally looks back to me and politely inquires of my purpose. “Let’s start with Why you came here, Patrick.” 

“Sure, lets.” I let the silence lengthen to dramatic heights and alas speaking my mind. “I came because it was close, I’m here because my last therapist recommended a psychiatrist instead of a pharmacist. My dental pension alone can pay for both.” 

Doctor Hannibal takes my file in hand which I give him, his eyes scan the crisp pages quickly for the dab of the unknown picking at the edges of my moisturized cuticles, I find myself nervously sweating again at the back of my neck. “No drug dependency, no abnormal dietary deficiency, no eating disorders, no immediate physical coping problems.” 

Now is the perfect chance I have to vault over the coffee table, and bind his limbs together, I’m sure to find the fossilized pre-psychiatry tools framed in his office as most men do to look upon the past as a guidance to the future. For one, it is heinous and gaudy. Half-minded prudes who think happiness is free are either dead or overdosing on Xanax. 

“No previous psychiatric evaluations.” His cuticles are very healthy now that I take the time to peer past the Prozac haze, his fingers have a dewy glow on his moisturized tips, maybe from soaking his hands in milk and strawberry pulp. He keeps his chin high and back straight as he speaks of my comparably pointless woes. I need to pay off my deliveries of the latest LA Gear. “There are other more capable offices better equipped for these exams covered by your company insurance.” 

“I’m not here for the exam.” A little birdy tells me little things. The Tattler isn’t the Wall Street Journal, but like the tall tales homespun by sexually bored and chronic shop-a-holic housewives, the best stories are by no dispute also the best lies ever told. “I’m here because I wanted to be invited to your ‘lavish’ soirées and may I quote from that delectable little writer from the Tattler? ‘Captivating to the eye, singing tastes to the soul, but pales to the artist’s brilliance for his practice is not only successful, and so is his kitchen famous for other reasons’.” 

“I can’t disagree. Freddie Lounds always did know how to chalk up brownie points for her new editor in chief, whom is an avid fan of mine and a regular guest to my home.” Chanel’s lucky number was five, hence the name Chanel no. 5 which is still her global bestseller and namesake perfume, I’d pay double her worth to bite off Doctor Hannibal’s pulse points and regurgitate into his hollow skull like Evelyn finger-tickling her vocal cords into her rhinestone purse by Statement after she indulges in too much Ben & Jerry ice cream cake. “You’ve made three mistakes in garnering an invitation, Mister Bateman: I would rather a review from the ‘Gourmet Bon Ton’, I do not read the Tattler for pleasure, and I cannot be intimately acquainted with my patients outside my office nor in.” 

“Doctor Hannibal-” All in all, Doctor Hannibal makes fine company if I take at least ten milligrams of Xanex beforehand and an hour’s worth of cardio. “I don’t make friends I don’t need and Gourmet Bon Ton is a penny short of the Tattler. Go figure.” 

“I recommend for all the bravado wasted on me a plate of worms from Versace.” Doctor Hannibal has no idea how unstable his current patient really is. 

“The affair is priceless, Doctor Hannibal. Priceless.” I notice a very faint track playing in the darkness which isn’t helped by the heavy curtains the same color as the shadows playing along the edges of his halogen ceiling lamp, the lightest almost nonexistent of a duet between a virtuoso mezzo-soprano and a cello soloist, the tinkling of a baby grand while a quartet of violins make the base of this duet five too perfect of a gangbang with the soprano spread like a dissected frog beneath all six men violating her with their violin sticks, cello bows and ivory pressing fingers. “I want to decapitate you and melt your smug face in my ‘Best Dressed’-trophy with lye and donate your substandard suits to the Goodwill along with those imitation-Gucci lace ups.” 

“Are you sure?” His shoes have two flat levels, one fine slice of a modern rubber foot bed, the sole of vintage wood and finished by a cork-free lift in his heel, suddenly I’m not sure whether he is asking me about his shoes or if he heard me recite my plan for him. Doctor Hannibal shifts to one side and gives no sign of his bad hearing. “Please consider Chef Rousseau for your entertainment. There is also a matter of the bill.” 

A cleaving throb aches in my chest, but I’m relieved of how he chooses to ignore my statement which I’m sure he didn’t hear. “AmEx and hundreds are all I have?” 

From here at this time we leave no breathing space enough for me to observe or come along with thoughtful rebuttals, starting with him first: 

“Either is acceptable. There is still time at our disposal.” 

“Indulge me, Doctor Hannibal. Please no picture show tests, I’ve already been to the art gallery all week without humor.” 

“Oh? Does some word association sound more to your aptitude, Patrick?” 

I nod. 

“Very well, Mister Bateman. The objective of this test is that you respond immediately to the words or phrases I say. Anything will do, but one-worded answers are essential, yes?” Doctor Hannibal completes his list which has been building into two pages front and back during our discussion. “Childhood.” 

“Pointless.” 

“Mother.” 

“Cheater.” 

“Father.” 

“Womanizer.” 

“Siblings.” 

“Pathetic.” 

“Home.” 

“Catalogue.” 

“Puberty.” 

“Pheromones.” 

“School.” 

“Boring.” 

“College.” 

“Fraternity.” 

“Religion.” 

“Armani.” 

“Armani.” 

“Georgio.” 

“Cotton.” 

“Egyptian.” 

“Silk.” 

“Chanel.” 

“Cashmere.” 

“Lovely.” 

“Hilfiger.” 

“Unacceptable.” 

“Food.” 

“You.” 

He pauses, contemplating whether he had heard wrong or if I had given him a false statement. I only settle deeper into the couch. Doctor Hannibal continues: 

“Wall Street.” 

“Shit.” 

“Brokers.” 

“Faggots.” 

“Designers.” 

“God.” 

“Monday.” 

“Holiday.” 

“Friday.” 

“Tunnel.” 

“Saturday.” 

“Shopping.” 

“Sunday.” 

“Shopping.” 

“Exercise.” 

“Required.” 

“Life.” 

“Style.” 

“Water.” 

“Perrier.” 

“Wine.” 

“Vintage.” 

“Alcohol.” 

“Absolut.” 

“Heroine.” 

“Doable.” 

“Acid.” 

“Too 80’s.” 

“Methamphetamine.” 

“No.” 

“Marijuana.” 

“Too 60’s.” 

“Beer.” 

“Imported.” 

“Prescriptions.” 

“Xanax.” 

“Xanax.” 

“Fun.” 

“Cocaine.” 

“Sweet ‘n Low.” 

“Death.” 

“Passé.” 

“Disaster.” 

“You.” 

He turns the page after neatly printing notes of my valid responses to his list of justly bland associations, flowing in concentered order from my childhood, into the life I now buy my way through phonebook-like catalogues and outings to Tunnel. Guilt by association is how I am seen for working at P & P, ass-kissing brown-noser no longer, am I, Doctor Hannibal Lecter, My beauty? My sweet Mona Lisa David? How do I count the ways to bloody you up a little? 

“Past.” 

“Tasteless.” 

“Future.” 

“Now.” 

One-one-thousand kicks to the gut. 

“Girlfriend.” 

“Bitch,” 

“Job,” 

“Payday,” 

Two-one-Thousand spanks to the thighs. 

“Friends,” 

“Dickheads,” 

“People.” 

“Dull.” 

Three-one-thousand sledgehammer pounds to the bones. 

“Money-” 

“Happiness.” 

“Drugs,” 

“Yummy.” 

Still alive now, Doctor Hannibal Lecter? 

“Erotica.”

“Hardcore.” 

Four-one-thousand razorblade cocktails of antifreeze and a pint of heroine to the stomach. 

“Sex.” 

“Threesome.” 

“Kissing.” 

“Lesbos.” 

Still thinking now, Doctor Hannibal Lecter?

“Stimulation.” 

“No.” 

Five-one-thousand needles to the brain laced with meth and liquid nitrogen. 

“Vaginal.” 

“Doggy Style.” 

Still breathing now, Doctor Hannibal Lecter? 

“Missionary.” 

“Maybe.” 

Six-one-thousand straws to the lung and a bicycle pump shoved down his throat. 

“Anal.” 

“Required.” 

Still moving now, Doctor Hannibal Lecter? 

“Cunnilingus.” 

“Yuck.”  
Seven-one-thousand half-inch slits to each major muscle group dusted with Sweet ‘n Low. 

“Fellatio.” 

“Mmm.” 

Your heart still beating, Doctor Hannibal Lecter? 

“Fellatio.” 

“Huh.” 

One-one-million milligrams of epinephrine injected into the heart. 

“Fellatio.” 

“Yes, Doctor Hannibal.” I’m first aware of a growing wet patch, but it is dutifully ignored as does Doctor Hannibal while he prints down my diagnoses. It better be something with lithium or morphine. “Be warned I don’t say please.” 

Why are you still alive, Doctor Hannibal Lecter? I can pull all this off tonight if my Armani can handle a few stray flecks of blood. 

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Mister Bateman.” Doctor Hannibal stands to full height, my god he’s tall, his shoulders squared naturally without the use of shoulder pads. He sets his pen back into the notepad. “Have you made dinner reservations tonight, Mister Bateman?” 

“At the Pavé for eight o’clock.” My lie comes naturally with a sweaty forehead in his cool office. 

“Would you be so kind as to cancel them.” My spine flutters with the smile he offers to me, his scar is now more pronounced than it had been with his relaxed facial muscles. “I’ve decided that you should see my second job other than my psychiatric practice.” 

We both stand, Doctor Hannibal Lecter getting his long wool overcoat by a Nordique -I swear some of the things I scan through stay put: read from the New York Journal- tailor with a classic lining from neck to knees of wooden buttons, he wraps his neck and knots his neck with a Ralph Lauren mohair scarf. Little passes between us besides a glance and a nod as he unlocks and opens his Mercedes door for which I am allowed in as he closes the door behind. My nose is first hit with a non-organic smell, my hands pass over the oddly patterned seats, the cool a sign of leather and unwrinkled surface falsifying the leather makes me snatch my hand away. Pleather! 

I take a Xanax which I had forgotten was in my attaché case for some odd hours, I gulp it down with a Diet Pepsi, and Doctor Hannibal seems as if to not have seen me, I think he is purposely ignoring me on purpose waiving his previous kindness. The quicker we are alone, the easier it will be to fuck his dead body over a burner and to tie his hands over to the edge with my Hermès tie. Fuck Carruthers and his installing me with a gay bone. 

\---

“I want to swallow your cock.” I wait in an uncomfortable haze tugging my eyelids lower until my eyes shoot wide open, I repeat the line a Tunnel hooker once used on me to get me up. It worked, not with this dapper devil who only winces. The fucker has the Nerve to look Disgusted. Maybe it’s the high bright lighting playing tricks. And the Xanax I took an hour prior. “I want to swallow Your cock.” 

“Don’t.” Doctor Hannibal is washing down a bite of either quail egg or dog shit smothered in wine sauce with his Chianti, it smells delicious whatever it is, my cheek is tilted on the side, moreover laying on his stripe-woven tablecloth of… it’s actually wood. 

“Touch me, Doctor Hannibal Lecter.” My body rises, my hands reach across the table end to him, I can’t reach him. In a last attempt I fall out of my seat and hear myself mumbling over anything to lure Doctor Hannibal close. “I’m clean.” 

“You’re confusing the effects of the endorphin kick from the prescription drugs for lust, Mister Bateman. Just finish your appetizer. I suggest you take a cab home soon after you are finished.” Doctor Hannibal rises to clear the plates away, my arm shoots out and takes him by the ankle. He stares down at me, and what I see is pity. 

“I don’t care, Hannibal!” My outburst earns me another look from him, one of a self-disgusted sorrow, I’ve been there where he is now, or is he bating me to him? “Touch me!” 

“If you insist.” Doctor Hannibal is covered from head to chest in arterial blood spraying from my neck, honestly, I don’t feel myself in pain. He smiles and licks his lips. “Au revoir, Monsieur Patrick Bateman.”


End file.
